Bloodlust
by M.R. Zero
Summary: The starting point of Gunther’s Chronicles about the most illustrious members of the Brethren of Aurelius falling apart after Angelus’ permanent departure. Darla leads her elite pack of killers in the streets of London to seek out a new protector. Plz
1. A New Beginning

**Episode One: Diary**

**Chapter One: A New Beginning**

"Do I need him? Should I... return to him?"

o o o

_"In a time where people longed for peace and stood in between wars, the humans faced a foe that even in the far off future won't even know its existence. The undead; the vampires. And they - the mortals - talk about them in horror novels, considering them as fictional. But they truly exist... and they also have a dreaded enemy; the Vampire Slayer, the Chosen One, the one girl strong enough to face the blood lusting race. She would save mankind many times over, while staying in the shadows of the humans' false beliefs."_

_"Among those of the undead were the merciless, joined together in an attempt to live their un-life bathed in blood. Those were the murderers who's names were Darla, Angelus, Drusilla and Spike: the infamous Fanged Four."_

_"As for me, I wasn't so much a part of them, but I know everything there is to know about those legendary vampires. Everything. I suppose I even know more about them than what they know themselves. Or what they don't want to let others know anyway. I discovered Angelus when it was too late; I was sleeping for what I figured was an eternity. This was a minor setback since immediately following the return of his soul, his old crew still carried on his vicious legacy and they would soon make history..."_

o o o

He joyfully walked down the stairs of a church in London, licking clean the blood drip dangling on the corner of his lips. The fiend grinned wickedly before jumping the last few steps and heading through the paved streets of the rainy city. His overbearing ramble drove people to crawl against the wall in fright. This malicious vampire couldn't resist to fake one or two scares to noblemen passing by. Spike. Who else? He walked pass an aristocratic house whose inhabitants were uttering phony giggles through the window, the shadows of the men and women holding up their drinks cast on the silken crème-colored drapes. Spike came back, paused and cunningly chit-chatted with the butler to be offered invitation, then made his way into the mansion. And after a short period of time, the laughs turned to screams as the drapes of the street window got spattered of blood. Inside, Spike fed off the last living man in the room when Darla came out from the backyard, accompanied, making her own silly laughter.

She looked upon Spike, irritated and surprised, while on the other hand, he looked puzzled, wondering what he could have possibly done wrong this time. Darla's companion's eyes were filled with terror, thus the understandable turning around in a flash in order to bolt out of his own dwelling... but she locked his jaw with her delicate and gripping hands, the disturbing snap enough to send the most valiant of man running for the hills. As she morphed to her true nature, her teeth lowered down on the neck, the canines ripping, beating against the damp flesh. A fatal exchange of blood to serve one's selfish desires, the need to live a life not meant to be lived. Death followed. After the body thumped on the floor, Darla silently stared at Spike with manifest displeasure.

Spike: What?!

Darla: They were our contacts to acquire the lovely estate on the cliff in the country, Spike. Now we're once more fit for the gutter!

Spike: What ya yappin' about, beautiful? You got this snobbish hole for yourself now. (Looks at the dead bodies) I fancy this as a bed and breakfast... mom.

(Darla sighs desperately.)

Darla: Our madwoman not on your arm?!

(Drusilla surprises everyone, standing in the entrance hall giving to the living room)

Drusilla: You're both here and it spoke it to me. Was getting at the golden demons, dancing...

Darla: Yeesss... (Short pause) Sun rises soon. Go to sleep, all of you.

Drusilla: Had it hard a night tonight. All flies with flesh! But I'm not thirsty!

o o o

During the day, the vampires slept while their deaths were being planned. A rich yet not too old man walks difficultly with his cane up to his desk, where three men stood in front of, waiting impatiently. At the sight of the rich gent, all the hypocrite men turned their frowns upside down... all but the middle one who barely turned his head to look, presumably being able to see enough with half an eye. The rich gentleman sat at his desk upon which maps and books overspread the surface, concealing what was once a working space.

Arthur: Where is she now?

Man#1: The coast guards have spotted her coming back to London two days ago.

Arthur: Why wasn't I informed?!

Man#2: We needed to be certain, Arthur.

Arthur: Are you now?

Man#2: Absolutely.

Arthur: Well gentlemen, we have our plan. Let's put it in action.

(Short silence)

Arthur: What is it Whipper, cat got you tongue?

The middle one, responding to Whipper, raised his head. His most noticeable traits were his black eye patch and his slight scar below the eye that could not have been fully hidden by said patch. Arthur stunned. Obviously, that scratch was recent, which explained that edge, that bitterness in his voice.

Whipper: Something like that.

Arthur: Dear God! What in heaven's name happened to you?!

Whipper: You can say that a wild cat scratched out my cornea.

Arthur: Must have hurt...

Whipper: Not as much as its going to hurt the cat.

(Young woman interrupts the conversation, standing at the door.)

Catherine: Talking about felines Mr. Whipper? Such pleasing animals.

Whipper: Not always, Ms. Addams.

(Arthur stands up, controlling his mild rage at the unexpected sight of the woman)

Arthur: Gentlemen, you all know my daughter, Catherine.

(The men agree with Arthur and salute Catherine)

Arthur: Sweetheart, we're in the middle of a very important meeting, I--

Catherine: Forgive me, father, but mother is going mad against the curtains and I believe she will very much kill the maid.

Arthur: Then let her be. It's not like she does much around here anyway.

(Low mocking laughs among the men)

Catherine: You must be joking me...?

Arthur: Catherine! I don't have time for your mother's delusions. If she doesn't like the curtains, fine! I'll buy her new ones. Now leave me before I must dismiss you in a somewhat less civil matter.

(Catherine looks at her father also containing her rage. She pauses while fixating her father's eyes. Not wanting to disobey him, she leaves.)

Arthur: Tonight... she will pay.

o o o

Nightfall hits London and the vampires of the world awake from their slumber. Spike gets out of bed and comes to Drusilla to wake her up. She startles, but he gagged her with his hand, silencing her clamoring.

Spike: Hush, my love.

Spike, snorting rather mischievously, leads a calmer Drusilla into the corridor. She shows signs of excitement, but all hopes of a successful escape just went up in flames when, both of them, freeze when the corridor light flicks on. Drusilla looks behind, but Spike doesn't, knowing full well who the person is and what kind of face that person is wearing now.

Darla: Going somewhere?

Spike: Yes. Out.

Darla: Not tonight, you know why.

Drusilla: (Ecstatic like a little girl, she questions Darla to see if it's really true.) We're going shopping?!

Darla: Yes, we are.


	2. The African Sideline

**Episode One: Diary**

**Chapter Two: The African Sideline**

****

The vampires prowl the night away in the streets until Drusilla suddenly stops and wiggles her fingers in the air. She senses something.

Drusilla: I see a man. He is near... oh... dries like deserts.

Darla: Male, near, babble... got it. Anything else?

Drusilla: He walks with the wolves and tears the wool in a pack. But where is the shepherd?

Spike: A bit fuzzy, but hey, got our boy!

Darla: Note to self; lose the crazy, buy crystal ball.

o o o

Africa, sometime during the late 19th Century. A fire dances fiercely in the night's horizon. We notice ebony-skinned men chanting around said intense flames. The elder commands his people to stop, merely raising his palm to them. He looks at one of his men, who then comes kneeling to him right away. As we witness the chief immersing his hands into a cauldron of hot blood, we find ourselves next to shadowy figures murmuring in the far bushes.

The leaves shuffle which intrigues a tribe man, but his worries vanish as fast as they came. The dark silhouettes are commanded by one of their own to move out, and so they do, all the while remaining well hidden. They close in stealthily on the tribe. The beefy black tribe member who kneeled has now been marked in blood with tribal signs. As the chief says something in Swahili, he takes his feather crown and lowers it on the head of the one he respectfully calls Zareb Akuji.

War cries erupted from the wave of slave hunters jerking out of the bushes. Ambushed by all sides, the tribe goes into panic. Guns fire, nets are thrown, tranquilizers are used, whips crack... On the defensive side, the Africans run to the artillery: they shoot tranquilizer darts, get the machetes ready, throw rocks, spears and rocks attached to ropes which break bones as they entangle on the occidental invaders. The westerners torch houses to force those who hide to come out.

A man stands out from the hectic crowd. He grips two whips in his murderous hands and commands the assailants. This intruder's face reminds us of someone we glanced upon before. He is the one they call Whipper. Fascinatingly enough, he bears no patch nor scar going down his oculus. Zareb's thoughts clear enough to make him come to the fact that the man who he lays eyes upon is the leader.

The blood gushes freely, tiny little red drops of rain splashing, soiling the land. It never stops, for the mad swinging of his machete slicing whoever gets in his way is relentless. As he runs towards the leader in a fiery rage, Zareb is shot by one, two, three tranquilizers before he clumsily finds himself face to face with the culprit: Whipper, the leader. This one smirks nastily experiencing no greater satisfaction than when he starts cracking his whip at the drugged man. Rapid, cruel, impetuous slashes, the cuts blankly appearing on his derma as out of nowhere. The whip; his weapon of choice where no other weapon would do. It holds no secret of its control. Dancing the violent combat string into the air, a sudden rush of enthusiasm ran through his entire body As he openly, disgustingly exhibited his obvious apprehension towards the wounded man crawling before him, the one incomprehensibly punished remained courageous all the while, but alas, crumbled down in the dirt, a smoke of dust rising at his fall.

"Ashes to ashes, dirt to dirt... where you belong."

The redneck bastard impishly kicked the sedated man into his ribs as he walked around the body. Before he fully submersed into deep, forced slumber, Zareb painfully looked up and gazed at a woman and child running in the hostile savanna. He smiled at their victorious freedom, but the last thing he saw of his homeland was his family crumbling down to the ground after malicious gunshots were fired. His heavy head hit the ground, his face shamefully hitting soil

Chained like a rat, he dreams nothing. As he does his chores in inhumane and sickening conditions, he barely has the strength nor will to carry on. He did not see freedom in this continent of proletariat; he saw hell. America is hell.

The sun broke down on his back all day as he was obliged to do things no man would. Of all the atrocities that could happen, one toped them all; the slave hunter never left the rich country property to which our slave friend was brought to work on, bought by the owner like commodities. As if to torment poor Zareb even further, one might think he followed him. The slave hunter did not sell his merchandise and leave, for he was also of them so to speak: that Stone family. Whipper was their guest and considered a hero. So long as he would hunt for them, he would remain fed and taken care of.

Inside the main residence and in all the unfairness, the tenants complain.

Matilda: How intolerable this heat has become!

George: Yes, it has! I swear if ever it is to rise again, we'd be nose to nose with the sun, really. It is simply enough to drive one mad!

The front lawn, covering a fair large amount of land, was being labored by the pain-struck slaves, and for three square meters of land, there would be a slave working his life away... and there was roughly a good seventy-five square meters of land for the front lawn alone. From inside to outside, through glass windows which set them apart, they saw but moving things, as the opposite would feel envy, yet a great amount of angst and disgust towards their owners.

Of all the qualities one could have, innocence is the lightest and purest of all. It is a gift, shared by few and gone by adolescence. The young Tommy of the Stone family was smart enough not to let anyone get him to change. Although pure of heart, it was borderline naïveté.

The boy waited patiently for the superintendent, the slave hunter from before, who sweated bullets rocking his chair nonchalantly on the porch, to fetch something to drink from inside the guest house. Backed against the white hangar, he leaned to spy on him. When he finally entered the house, it was the boy's time to take his legs and run... fast! And he did. He ran and jumped into one of the deep holes, backing up against the dirt, hiding. The toiling slave shocked still.

Whipper came out with a glass of water and scanned the field before him for any abnormalities that could have occurred in his short absence. The slave next to the boy was no other than Zareb. He didn't know what to expect but jittered thinking if ever he were to get caught. He'd be to blame, no doubt about it. Stunned, he was... and the slave hunter noticed. He saw his uneasy glare in the distance, and so he fixated him like a hunter to its prey, like a bullet piercing through flesh. The slave tried to work casually the best he could to keep suspicions off of him, but he knew eyes were burning him. He finally let go of eyeing the "worker" when he sat back in his chair, getting back to his post.

Zareb knew nothing of the language of those white men. The anger he had built up, how he was scorned... all vanished looking at the kid hyperventilating from the obvious thrill he just experimented. As for the kid, he grinned and looked at the black man with a wide, genuine smile.

Tommy: Hey! So... you must not like it here huh? Who would? My parents are so dumb to have prisoners. You should be with your family.

Zareb, all the while shovelling, was clueless to the young boy's jabber.

Tommy: Fa-mi-ly, you know.

In the dirt, he draw with his index a matchstick mom, dad and child. And he smiled in a caring simplicity yet again. Zareb was bothered, and not by the silly drawing which he perfectly understood, no, but simply bothered by the painful memories which came flooding in. Tommy acknowledged his pain with the clearest and most sincere facial expression.


	3. Redefinition Party

**Episode One: Diary**

**Chapter Three: Redefinition Party**

****

A gang causes terrible ruckus in an abandoned building all the way down crumpling stairs, and into a decrepit basement where an iron door in the back stands immortal. Like something consumed to the bone, the basement held nothing of interest but that door. As if we have not seen enough leaders already, another one emerges from this distinct group of sloppy vampires. Clothed with neat regard, his garments are substantially outdated, yet not deprived of charm. A French aristocrat would have worn the same blue coat adorned of old gilded button locks all across the outline of the opening, if ever he was in the Renaissance. With his intoxicating provocativeness, one might think this lad of striking long blond hair and alluring ocean blue eyes would be victim of his own self, falling in the realm of narcissus. But how could he? The symbol of one's own physical truth, the mirror, cast nothing upon his every examination. However, he was not idiotic. Over the years, he observed with keen awareness how the charisma he innately possesses could easily be used to obtain all he wished with a simple lustful eye. Smooth traits, miraculously perfect skin... desirable man he was. To anyone.

Marching on the frontline, showing distinct authority... he is undeniably their commander. As he knocks with a particular order on the door, his undead henchmen exchange eager grins behind him. A rusty visor slides open, emitting a noise similarly awful as scrunching. Party goers were heard blaring through the opened panel.

Guard: Yeah?

He who led spoke out, the words were something of a foreign language, possibly even unknown to mortals. No one had asked and no one was about to. His voice didn't echo, although his tone proved he possessed along the lines of an unshakable self-confidence. The visor slides shut in a quick motion following the opening of the impenetrable door, letting the undead clan into a vampire bar/party.

Men, women and children were hung from the ceiling in the middle of the spacious factory-like setting, right above a circular counter, tubes having been distastefully lodged into them, the demonic clients demanding the blood of specific body parts while the barmen hectically whooshed all over trying to supply demand.

The guru signals his gang without never looking back. Knowing all the codes, they immediately scattered throughout the bar. A familiar African fellow follows the leader weightily to the counter...

Gautier: (To Barman) Two Kidhearts for me and my friend here.

Barman: You got expensive taste tonight. What's the occasion?

Gautier: Tombstone here deserves a little celebration.

The wide black slave from the flashback is with the head of the forsaken society, part of his gang of forever troublesome hoodlums. He carries on a new pair of pointy teeth and a new name: Tombstone. Intrigue settles in, as a crucial missing part of the puzzle leaves his story incomplete.

Garbed in old torn up clothes, he looks poor down to his missing soul. The rings of sweat had stained his apparel and dirt had incrusted the fabric of the thin tissue, making solid evidence he had worn those during his time as a slave. As a matter of fact, what he wore considerably looks like a worn-out version of what he was given when working on the Stone property.

Now he is among his own, but he does not feel belonged. In a sea of beige, he is this lace of black. Truthfully, no discrimination would apply like in the human world, now belonging to one and only new race; the vampires. Back in that corner, she wasn't Jewish, she was vampire. Drinking that old lady, he wasn't Italian, he was vampire. As an undead, Tombstone was sadly still displaced, just like a discarded porcelain panther. Fragile, yet ferocious. Wearing a glance of shame and forlornness, none cannot find himself pitying the thing. None except the heartless, which he is surrounded by.

Darla, Drusilla and Spike come in the same building and approach the same heavy iron door the apparent sect came to. Darla leads and comes knocking with no particular order. The visor opens and before she can say a thing, it shuts. Men's grave laughs are slightly heard through the thick metal door.

Spike: May I?

Spike, approaching the impervious entrance - stubbornly stagnant - with a mighty will to defy Darla by all means, proudly executes the knocking code upon the door without any trace of diffidence, and then carries on with the password. The door objects to its forced opening and the broad guard lets Spike and Drusilla come in, but stops Darla with his massive hand. She slowly raises her head to him, leaving him no choice but to look at her intense, offended glare.

Guard: Sorry ma'am, but not you.

Darla: But--

Spike snatches Dru's hand and drags her in the bar, looking back on Darla to shrug unknowingly at her. Spike corners a smile.

Darla: Spike!

(The man cannot contain his proud smiles. Drusilla dances slightly to the music as they both go deeper into the bar. Spike grabs Dru and pulls her close to him.)

Spike: (To Dru) So who is it hun'?

Drusilla: (Looks around and points at the previous gang leader sitting at a table) There!

Spike: (Disgruntled) You sure?

Drusilla: Yes-s-s.

Spike: Let's pay Gautier a visit then.

Spike and Drusilla head for Gautier's table, but they are interrupted by two gang members. One of which obstructed Spike by pushing a hand to his chest.

"That's close enough."

Spike chuckles and looks down at the member's manus. As quickly as he jerked his head up from its downward position, he broke the vampire's neck vertebras. A second assault by another member urging to strike Spike failed, the attacker quickly heaping down into dust also. Spike comes to the boss, Gautier, with Drusilla reluctant to follow. He sits on a chair which he turned backwards. Gautier plays in his drink with his fingers, fully knowing what is happening, simply unthreatened.

Spike: Hello, mates. Havin a lil' chat? Hope I didn't intrude, 'cause that would be very rude, wouldn't it?

Gautier: Yes. It would Spike.

(Spike pays no attention to Tombstone next to him and talks only with Gautier.)

Spike: My love had a premonition. (To Dru) Didn't you my lamb? (Back to Gautier) And for some reason, you're my grand-grand-mother's new candidate as her new bitch. So, don't fuss around and follow us nicely.

Gautier: (Laughs shaking his head in disbelief) Angelus gone, Darla needs a new protector. Pathetic...

Spike: (Serious for a split second) Something along those lines. (...) So you gonna come or do I have to make you?

Gautier: Spike... I _dare_ you to make me.

Spike: (Sighs. Overacting, he pretends to be disappointed.) Fine.

(Spike flips over the table and grabs Gautier firmly by the shirt. Gautier chuckles.)

Gautier: You didn't think I'd come here by myself, did you?

Spike: I ain't scared of your half-pint gang.

(Gautier laughs again even more)

Gautier: Tombstone, Spike. Spike, Tombstone.

(Spike turns his head to the left, right where Gautier was staring)

Spike: Wha--?

Spike didn't see the fist coming, but he certainly felt it. He was thrown a few feet away by the large war machine that is Tombstone before he rolled down two little steps. Darla is at the entrance, who just finished dusting the guard with her hairpin when the ruckus catches her attention.

Darla: Hum. Strong.

She approaches without flinching from the dust still clouding her nor taking her eyes off the fight. She comes next to Dru, putting her hands on Dru's shoulder, then resting her chin ever femininely on them. Both the she-devils interchange playful glances of complicity. All the while, Spike stands up quickly, enraged to have received such a powerful punch in his... pride.

Spike: Big man you are. No I don't think we met. I'm Spike, and you—well, you're dead.

Tombstone: Stop talking, weird man.

We hear him speak for the first time, doing so not very articulately and with a distinct African native accent. Spike retaliates impetuously against the dark beast, only to see his fists clothed one after the other with Tombstone's giant paws. His brutal force drove Spike down on his knees. A couple of bones began to break as the pressure intensified. He screams, agonizing.

Now he realized inflicting pain procured him with some wicked pleasure.

Darla: That's enough, Gautier. Tell your thing to back out!

Gautier: Hmm... why?

Darla: (Thinks for a second) Oh just let the puny man live his puny life! He's young.

Gautier: All the more reason to teach him a lesson. (...) Ok Tombstone, let him go.

Tombstone lets Spike free and the injured vampire is stroking his badly bruised hands. Drusilla comes to help her lover.

Drusilla: Poor Spike got hurt. (To Tombstone) You'll be strapped, you! Naughty boy! Naughty!! Naughty, bad boy!!!

Tombstone: He was hurting my master.

Gautier: So Darla... how's Angelus?

Darla: (Understands his game) Burning in heaven I hope. But don't underestimate me, Gautier. I can not always be a lady.

Gautier: You know I know. (Soft snickers) So... your devotee told me you wanted me to follow you in your stupid crusade? Please!

Darla: Drusilla indeed brought us here, but I assure you that I'd never ever want YOU to join us. It would disgrace the Brethren. Plus, considering a crusade is a Christian belief, I very much doubt we are doing that.

Gautier: Well one might wonder. You might have wanted to get a soul, too.

Darla: Like I said Gautier... don't underestimate me.

Gautier: You can choose who you want to have in your silly elite, Darla, but what kind of idiot would?

Spike: (Playing the game, he interrupts the hostile conversation) Oh wait! Now I think I figured out why Dru thought he'd be you.

Darla: (To Gautier of course) That! That is an insult to your family! You already are a disgrace to us all!

Gautier: Poor Darla, there is no longer a family. Look around; we are a race now! Our understanding makes _us_ the future; The Bloodshedders gang roars while you meow! You... and your pathetic and lost fools grasping at the tiny bit of what's left of Aurelius' testimony. Tell me Darla... to what extent your stupidity reaches? The sky? Or is it the moon?

Darla quickly spun Gautier backed against her chest with her nails ready to slice his throat. Gautier's men growled and got ready to attack.

Darla: (Whispering in Gautier's ear.) I will not be made a fool, Gautier. Never.

Knowing her slim chances against Gautier's men, Darla pushes Gautier onto Tombstone. He turns around, turns his vampire face on, straightens his clothing and walks back slowly to Darla.

Gautier: You know, Darla, just because--

Darla vamps out and slashes Gautier in the face. The vampire gang also turns fully vampire and, on their leader's command, marched towards Darla, Drusilla and Spike. The guards of the place came in between and stopped the coming fight rather violently. Darla heads out without adding anything. She walks in the bar cautiously to not stain her robe, disgusted by the filthy place. A drunk vampire melts on her like a blob, so Darla takes her hairpin out again to dust the over-affectionate creature. The she-vampire, the first to come out of the building and into the streets, is infuriated. She turns around to look in the eyes of the loving couple who is laughing impressively of the past events.

Darla: You think that's funny? I'm taking you out right here, right now for what you did, Spike!

(Darla threateningly approached Spike more and more as they were talking)

Spike: Ease up, now. No need to get cranky.

Darla: (To Drusilla) And you! You're sure _Gautier_ was the one??

Drusilla: I never said it was Gautier.

Darla: So we almost got killed and it wasn't the right person?!

Drusilla: Stop yelling-g.

Darla: I should have known! We needed something fresh - a human - to receive my purer blood. Why did I choose to follow your visions instead of taking the first guy that comes my way? (Looks at Spike repulsively) Oh... right. (Sighs) Dress up, we have another ceremony to attend. And please... behave this time Spike.

(The gang followed Darla in the streets, walking on ahead. Spike talks with Drusilla)

Spike: What exactly did you see in your vision then, love?

Drusilla: Wolf leader and black stallion.

Spike: Ooh yes! The Tombstone guy. (Mocking and sarcastic) Very original. At least he would have made granny often relax in a very _big_ way! (Laughs)

Spike and Drusilla come to a dead stop when they nearly bump into Darla, frozen still right in front of them.

Spike: What?! Can't take a joke?

The Bloodshedders came out of everywhere, languorously surrounding the three vampires. Gautier leads his gang with Tombstone by his side.

Gautier: You didn't think that was the end back there, did you?


	4. When We Were Hunted

**Episode One: Diary**

**Chapter Four: When We Were Hunted**

Darla: Oh no. I didn't.

The vampires ganged up on them and Darla and Drusilla struggled to get free before they got their mojo running. Spike obviously fought to protect Drusilla, and could not care less about Darla. Then, a dusted vampire taken by an arrow got everyone's attention. A crew of men stood in the foggy and near distance of the street. Tombstone, who avoided to fight until then, looked back and saw _him_. The men's leader and the vampire stared at each other intensely, both shocked and disgusted. The guy, that man... the same slave hunter as before! From Africa and from Arthur's office... The one known as Whipper!

Tombstone was somewhat scared of the only one that had ever been successful at restraining him. Whipper's men fired arrows everywhere, impelling the vampires to take cover. The men sprayed holy water in all places like crazy which forced those who hid to come forth, vulnerable. Many Bloodshedders perished. Some where brave enough to attack the men, but were as unsuccessful as the cowardly. Those guys had a very well-prepared arsenal. Those shady hunters with shady motives wouldn't leave until they were all dead. In a desperate attempt at survival, the vampires of all clans hid themselves among the stacked and scattered junk which served as perfect temporary camouflage against the mysterious human assailants.

The hunters marched down the narrow city street, cautious as to where were the vampires hidden. Finally, they made a mistake; they walked passed vampires cloaked in disgraceful rags who took this opportunity to jump behind the soulful beings for a surprise and effective back-attack. The Bloodshedders and Spike pitched in to kill those who foolishly came to take them out. Darla and Drusilla kept their distances and cuddled together, while a feeling mingled of both terror and amusement glided in their minds. Then Darla screamed in utmost pain as she was victim of a stray arrow protruding in her shin.

The gals stepped back for a tactical retreat, Drusilla with the pale devil's arm clinging around her shoulders, the blond one's mouth pouring out pleads to make the suffering end. Supporting her grand-sire the best she could, Dru whimpered and worried crazily. Although constantly distracted by the shouting and crying, she finally succeeded in taking refuge inside the abandoned building, giving them access to the bar downstairs and hopefully some calm. Whipper was ordered by another of Arthur's employee to go kill the fleeing women, leaving unwillingly Tombstone to the hands of the other hunters, his vendetta postponed.

She leaned against some debris of some sort and panted laboriously, not for the need to - she couldn't care less about oxygen - but because her friend was about to give her a new blow of pain. The screams that came out of this tiny beauty...!

Drusilla stood back up, clasping the arrow, the thing no longer buried into the bone.

Drusilla: (Complaining) "Ahh-ah! I hate!"

She broke it and tossed it with a grossed out expression written all over her face. It was all the blue moon's dim light passing through the door up the basement stairs continuing on the wall opposite her that Darla could see... though still in pain. A winner's smile started to grow, however, something... someone shadowed the peaceful blue she was looking at. She froze.

All but slackjawed this lady had become, with fear slowly getting the best of her. Her mad accomplice realized something was looming behind her. She tapered her lips nervously but broke out of it all when fear-struck Darla trailed towards the iron door. She panicked when she knew they would not let them in and they would leave both of them to die. While Darla was slipping into deliria, Dru was stagnant, shocked still.

Darla: "They... They-they won't let us in, they'll-- We'll die..."

Darla had learned the hard way that vampire hunters – even human – can be a huge pain in the ass. Think Holtz. That's why she was afraid. Appearances are deceiving; maybe he had scared her, traumatized her more than she let anyone think.

Darla panicked. She panicked good. The silhouette on the wall had readied his arsenal. He had began creeping down the stairs. And she froze again. Roles were reversed as Darla had gotten mad and Dru had one of those glimpse of lucidity she seldom has. Copying exactly her lover, she knocked the code and spoke the password. It worked. Dru had succeeded in giving them asylum. But the door was slow to open. Too slow.

A crack in the door made Dru able to slip in, but she was shoved aside by Darla, desperate to live. Quickly, Dru followed in and just as her head moved inside, an arrow lodged into the wall where she previously stood.

Drusilla: (To Darla) "Oh, catfight, bitch!!"

Darla: (Toning Drusilla out, she gibbered to the doorman...) Close that door!! Hurry!!

Doorman: Hey lady, we told you before, 'Get out--

Like instant magic, he hissed away in a thick fog of dust, leaving a pissed hunter obstacle-free. The ladies immediately turned around, making way through the dancing demons, thrusting against the busy bodies. Behind them, the second doorman rejoiced over the fact he would feed on the intruder, having worked up quite an appetite with all that standing around and checking out vampire chicks all night. A fast move of his wrist left none to see the stake had already flew to his heart. Another kill.

The women feared for their lives, but Darla especially, who advanced further, her mind not set on the leg pain. She never knew Dru was struggling in the crowd, far off behind, trying to keep up with her grandsire who slithered among the demons. It was all about herself and her own survival. Classic Darla.

As for Whipper, he knew there was absolutely no way he would find the vampire women in all those vampires and so he climbed the wooden shaft up to the ceiling's fortification. He walked fearlessly on the narrow beam while examining intensely for the she-demons down below, his crossbow shifting from side to side. He was searching through the crowd, shooting vampires occasionally. But Whipper was dangerously approaching the ladies who were having difficulty walking through the now agitated crowd.

Nothing scared Whipper... the man seemed fearless against those raging vampires underneath him. As he was gaining on the women, Drusilla was getting increasingly insane, mumbling away incoherencies. Whipper finally found Darla, but couldn't get a clear shot. Some vampires came to him to fight which bought the lady fiends some time. Darla saw a door blocked by a dilapidated shelf which brought her and Dru hurrying towards it. Whipper was now skilfully running on the ledge, nearly above the women. Darla and Drusilla tried to move the shelf, but Drusilla abandoned as she was increasingly frenetic. Darla successfully moved the shelf hence clearing the path to flee. Whipper jumped from the ceiling, escaping by a single inch to get his ankle grabbed by a desperate vampire, crawling behind him on the beam. This same perched vampire fell onto a piquet and dusted himself doltishly.

Whipper ran towards the door the vampires had just went through. Darla and Drusilla found themselves into a dead-end, an alley trapped by the soaring buildings all around, with a useless rusting fence miraculously still standing, resting silently on the buildings' brick walls, leaving them at the mercy of the hunter without fear. They heard something and looked back, terrified. Whipper instantly readied his crossbow as he passed the door into the secluded area.

He was surprised to see no one. But he smiled when he heard something above him. Darla and Drusilla were standing on the quite large wooden door's archway, and what Whipper heard was Darla slightly slipping, her leg getting too painful to sustain her body weight successfully. He slowly moved forward and in slow motion, turned around and raised his weapon steadfast. Drusilla and Darla were shocked by the sudden move and were ready to jump sideways, but Whipper had unmistakable aim and was locked on Darla's dead heart. All of a sudden, he got tackled to the floor by a gigantic thing – Tombstone - who was so enraged, he looked possessed.

Whipper was about to shoot Tombstone, but his crossbow flew away following Tombstone's violent disarming. Whipper was afraid and tried to back out, crawling, on his back, but it was no surprise that his pathetic attempt of fleeing was to fail. And Tombstone grabbed the man by the neck and lifted him up in the air. Darla and Drusilla, firmly standing on ground, were watching the scene in awe.

Tombstone: You killed Tommy!!

Whipper: (Choked up) No, _you_ did!

Tombstone: We were cages! You were free! _You_ shot him!!

Whipper: You're insane! I didn't--

(Tombstone squeezed Whipper's throat harder)

Whipper: Animals like you deserve to be locked up! Now you're more of a beast than you were back then! Now you're-- I'm not Tommy's--

(Tombstone growled, screamed and squeezed all the more, making speech impossible for Whipper. The hunter turned blue, his eyes rolled up… he won't live long...)

Darla: Go ahead, Tombstone. Make him pay. You can have your revenge now. He killed Tommy, you know. He deserves it...

Drusilla: Punish the evil man. Rip out and chuck out his pretty white collar!

Tombstone listened to Darla and almost let his instincts take over, but he came to his senses and let go of Whipper, who bumped hard onto the ground, madly gasping for air. Whipper stood up, backed against the fence, scared to death and traumatized. He passed sideways to Tombstone who was blankly staring ahead. Whipper started to run, but Tombstone went berserk again and surrounded Whipper's neck with his oversized, bone-grinding hands. He lifted him higher than before into the air and fixated him with a look so full of darkness that Whipper squirmed in panic.

Tombstone: For Tommy!

This announcement sounded very much so like a toast. And it was... Tombstone pulled Whipper's neck to his mouth and viciously glutted over his meal, like a famished fiend. And the blood flowed rapidly from body to body. In a matter of seconds, Whipper was without a drop of blood in him. His corpse thudded ingloriously on the ground after Tombstone let it drop. Delighted of Tombstone's actions, Darla approached and extended her arm to the large beast.

Darla: Well done. You are quite--

But she leaped back when Tombstone quickly turned to snarl at her. The blood he had ravaged had spilled out and was all over his face, which made him all the more gruesome. He walked and leaned more and more towards Darla in a prowling manner. His eyes, deprived of humanity. His eyes, big and crimson-coloured. Darla was carefully walking backwards, trying to lull Tombstone nervously whilst never daring leaving his sight. All indicated his spirit had been stripped out of him, consumed by his own evil doings, leaving behind a slave of cannibalism. Tombstone shook his head suddenly and straightened up. He looked around, profoundly surprised to see Whipper's limp body on the floor.

Tombstone: What happened?

Darla: You went mad, that's what happened! Nevertheless, you saved us. And you fed. _And_ you killed. My kind of boy... Tombstone isn't it?

Tombstone: Yes, my name is that.

Darla: Say... strapping man like you... you deserve more then a sad little gang of angst-driven little vampires. You ought to have justice in your life... the kind of justice you find in revenge. I know you must have suffered greatly because of so many. What would you do if you could make them suffer as much as you did? Tasting vengeance is the sweetest of all sins. I know that and I know you do too; because I saw you feel it. Come with us... and you will eternally drink to quench that thirst of undying vengeance.

(Darla caresses Tombstone's face. He smiles nervously.)

Tombstone: I will come with you.

Tombstone follows Darla out the secluded backyard. Drusilla starts following Tombstone after he passed by her, playing with her fingers in excitement. Spike comes in the bar, has blood on him everywhere and is bouncy from the evident kills he did.

Spike: What happened? Are you gals alright? (Referring to Tombstone.) Why is _he_ here? (Nobody answers, he goes to them) Seriously what happened?!

o o o

Time passes by and daylight hits the streets of London. A young man enters Arthur's room, slamming the door open. Arthur is impassive to the noise and keeps looking out the window behind his desk, standing there like a statue. An old and timid woman follows inside, ashamed of the lad's behaviour. The young man knocks his fist on the desk.

Justin: Where is my dad?!?


	5. An Oath To Revenge

**Episode One: Diary**

**Chapter Five: An Oath To Revenge**

Trudy: Calm down, Justin.

Justin: No! Where is he?!

(Arthur turns around, feeling disappointed and desolate.)

Arthur: I wished you would have found it another way kid, but hum... your father was killed last night.

(Justin is shocked. He panics and turns to denial)

Justin: (He stutters a few "no"s before screaming at the top of his lungs...) "NO! It can't be! I mean... (He chokes on his words than becomes deep and serious) Who killed him?

(Arthur is unable to formulate an answer)

Justin: (To Trudy) Grandmother, could you wait for me outside please? (Trudy obeys) And could you close the door also?

(Trudy obeys again and leaves the room, letting out some whimpers of sadness and disbelief as she does what she was asked to.)

Arthur: Justin... it might be hard for you to understand but... there is more in this world then what people think. Horror stories are sometimes true.

Justin: Stop giving me the run around and get on with it! So unless the boogeyman killed my father--

Arthur: Not the boogeyman, Justin. Your father hunted the undead and one must've caught him off-guard, I think. He was methodical, but maybe he was played. Don't know... the details. His body was found marked with a wide neck wound, bloodless, in a back alley near Stonework Street. A vampire bite.

Justin: (Sorrowful, he has moved on to acceptation quicker than anyone, having probably made presumptions of his own in the past.) I knew something unusual was going on, but I never imagined it to be this... crazy. (...) Oh... (fearing the word) dead.

Arthur: I am sorry...

Justin: Why did he hunt them?!

Arthur: Your father was continuously giving to the cause of mankind. He couldn't tolerate the monsters of our world.

(Justin quickly leaves sorrow to let determination and anger inhabit him. He raises his head to Arthur.)

Justin: Neither will I.


	6. Darla Spoke Last

**Episode One: Diary**

**Chapter Six: Darla Spoke Last__**

_"I don't much seek acceptance as I'm afraid I need guidance. I owe all of what I am to Him - my Master, **The** Master - and for that reason alone, I should return by his side. However, ungratefulness as always rewarded me with great satisfaction."_

_"Abandon of the Brethren, dismantlement of the Four, and now heading for a cataclysmic mistake. I've failed even my un-life…"_

_"I crave meaning to it all, but I'm lost and I need to be found. Someone to come rescue me, making me believe for one more second of my eternity that I'm not alone, that someone needs me... that I am needed."_

_"Somehow I remain with them; this bunch of destroyed walking bodies... these inferior, insignificant, pathetic shells of flesh. Truly sadistic."  
  
"It is decided. Down the line, we no-name good-for-nothings belong to each other, because we deserve only each other. Yes. We are of the Brethren of Aurelius no longer and neither are we the Fanged Four anymore; from now on, we'll simply be known as... The Brethren." _

_"We kill, we hunt, we glut, we maim... for luxury and necessity. We'll go down the ages, the demon folk looking up on us with utter envy. The Brethren... how marvellous will we be."_


	7. Showcase For Matisse

**Episode Two: Rock All Night**

**Chapter One: Showcase For Matisse**

_"Darla was stuck in a no-win situation. Struggling with everything she had been responsible for, she clung at the thought of power and control, thus making her act hastily and without judgment. Hence The Brethren."_

_"She loved to have them in her clutches, at her mercy, them fearing her. Not to mention the adoration she subtly picked up as she was assigned as a substitute matriarch for those orphans of the night."_

_"It is ineluctable Darla was to have a return to The Master enough to give the Prodigal Son something to blush about. Then when and why? And what about The Brethren? Did it survive? ... Of course not."_

o o o

As always, the vampires roam London freely, much like everywhere else on the planet when the sun has set. It's all about desire for them. What they like and nothing else. Apart from this, the wind outside blew chilly, consequently not enough passers-by to snack on. Driven into the depth and rather echoic institution where visual arts were prone - The English Museum - as the noble blood came by gallons.

Spike: The Brethren, eh? Nice! Am I the only one who reads the mislead; Brethrens supposed to be "of Brothers." God knows Darla's looks are of the boyish, but...

Drusilla: Well, _I_ like it.

Tombstone: Me too.

Darla steps around the ceramic column, intruding on the conversation. She mind not her vampire subordinates, pacing moderately and gazing at the oily paintings suspended on the walls all around. Art is a hobby of hers. Contemplating what the human mind can achieve when profoundly astute always seems to surprise her for what they truly are – mediocre. The painters, she means.

Darla: Not much like you have a choice.

Spike: Funny you say that--

Darla: I found something appealing on this woman... An invitation to Hansbridge Manor. I'd be good to go, and you too, Tombstone. You will pass as my companion slave for the night. It's tomorrow, so we--

Tombstone: I AM NO SLAVE!!

Drusilla: Be quiet, roaring beastie. Obey the blond one's idle demand.

Spike: Learn it now; with her, s'all about giving.

Darla: I can redeem myself by giving you a damn good beating.

Spike: (Insolent... as always) Please, mamma, no! I'll be a good Spike.

Drusilla: He'll be a good Spike!

They go round the column Darla had just came by and march on to the exit altogether. The corridor is vast and frigid, with a few light here and there. The velvet red ropes by their sides stood by the paintings to keep off the brash onlookers. As they go on, they shamelessly bashed on skulls, tottering on the dead bodies spread around all across the floor whilst maintaining casual conversation. The red carpet had reached other tones of red...

Spike: Say Darla, what the hell got up with you last night? Why the sudden rush of fear? I know you got some loose screws up the noodle, but s'not like you to be afraid.

Darla: (Surprised by her own words) I agree! That guy had this thing-- I don't know. He made me doubt myself. Very Holtz-ish.

Drusilla: Missy gone soft.

Darla: There are two things in this world that scare me. One you found out about; congratulations. Yes, they wouldn't be called vampire hunters if they didn't professionally dismembered bunnies. As for the second one, there's no chance in hell you'll ever know. Understand that I'm not easily afrai-- AH!

His head was positioned looking beyond their carcasses, mechanically having placed himself to behold this make-believe world of veracious colors, usurping the fine line between this realm and the next. With elegant beauty, he stood with his hands locked behind him.

If ever she were to be of the living, her heart would have sustained a furious heartbeat, her breasts moving, throbbing, thundering in a frenzy following this unwanted surprise. She regained self-control and immediately let out her anger.

Darla: Christ!! You?!

He answered with a crooked smile. All knew he was not to respond easily. Gautier had this way about him which resembled a superiority complex. Maybe this was all a crafty illusion, a wily web of lies which he had fabricated as a psychological front to avoid any trouble upon himself. None knew...

With his ageless beaming, he strolled down the carpet, examining paint massacred canvases – the laughable human artwork.

Awestruck and ever stagnant, they - The Brethren - observed the observer, waiting for who knows what. They just stood there, not panicked, but rather annoyed. Easily could they have walked out, but he had lured them in his mysteriousness.

Gautier: I like art.

Darla: No you don't, numskull! You get off peeping at a painted boob or two.

Gautier: Harsh! Manners, Darla, manners.

Darla: Get some first, then we'll bitch.

The devil's bride lined with the door to get away from this goofing idiot, but he obstructed her with all of himself. The following dialogue paced down rapidly...

Spike: Hey!

Tombstone: Get out of Mistress's way.

Gautier: Shut up, Tombstone.

Tombstone: Yes, Master.

Darla: (To Tombstone) Hey! ... (To Gautier) You, get out of my way!

Gautier: Not until you give me what I want.

(Darla pauses for an instant, intrigued)

Darla: I don't take orders very well, however I'm peeked; what's of mine that could possibly interest _you_?

On his face, the crooked smile widened to something awfully deviant. Bringing it far opposite her, he raised his index and pointed... those. Those luscious, inviting, sinuous, voluptuous curves of firm pleasure which he gazed upon with lascivious curiosity; Darla's breasts, her inborn artillery.

Darla: Look all you want pervert, you're not close to having playtime with the Darla juniors.

(He was taken aback by her response, frowning wildly.)

Gautier: No-o-o-oh...

He made her realize what she was thinking of what he had in mind, wasn't. What did he had in mind!? He wavered up his finger, going around something invisible, to point again at… _those_, but this movement made her notice he was aiming something else. Something white and carton-made which a hint of its corner had unsuccessfully been tucked into her plunging neckline, inside her brassiere. Something like... the Hansbridge Ball invitation.

Gautier: I want _that_.

Darla: Really? I thought you might want this instead...!

Cheeky Darla outreached his shirt which she twisted under her palms whilst turning vampy. With a similar impulse, she pulled him towards her, a meeting of their eyes, two of which were offended, the other ones showing something beyond indifference. She played the thought of little dive in the neck, but the coldness of the blood in him basically turned her off. How she wished she could wipe that silly grin off his face.

Still crippling him firmly, she let go when she sent him flying sideways against the wall. Not an uncalculated throw this was, no, even though executed with a quick brazen motion on her part. It was all meant for him to smash his head first onto the hard concrete. Unfortunately, she knew this wouldn't put him out forever, and not even at the very least put him unconscious.

When he had slid off along with a painting, he just sat up, leaning his back to the wall with his legs buckled. Like hyped on something strong, his head tilted back and his glance had become scatty. Most of them shared the same thought; if only they could take out that damn smirk of his. In the end, it's more a matter of "would" than "could." They loved whacking him around.

Unperturbed by this little "attack," The Brethren made way to the exit.

Gautier: Hey, traitor! (...) HEY, TOMBSTONE!!!

Surprising us with a rare angry look across his face, distorting his smirk to something so vile, he was about to speak his mind to his former henchman.

Tombstone paused before turning around, not scared, just... Tombstone-like. If there's something very hard to comprehend and difficult to process, it's Tombstone. That drone whose intellect had been chased away by self-loathe. The Brethren stopped, waiting, expecting something to come down.

Gautier: Yeah! Mr. Bigshot! Backstabbing your friends like (Finger snap) _that_. Yeah... Tommy would be so proud. You worked wonders with the boy. Cause that's what you did, you know; kill him.

Like a maddened bull, he stomped down to the man whose garments fell into his animal-like clench, lifting him up with much more ease then Darla ever did. He took a swing with the body in his arms, then began pounding him against the wall with unnatural, brutal rhythm. The might of the dark thing fell into the will of a god, his eyes were blood red and wide; he slipped into his trademark berserk state of mind again.

The wall began to fail with pieces and dust busting out at mad speed. In all the contusion, Gautier, impressive to sustain the blows, never tried to fight back the vampire's outburst.

Gautier: Is that how you treat me? Is that how you treat your own sire?!

He came to a dead stop, the drum-like mauling stopping faster then it began. Gautier opened up his arms and forced Tombstone to let go. The gang leader's power was still a mystery, considering Tombstone was in a state of confusion that could have been easily broken out of. But then again, he had to be somewhat stronger if he truly was his sire. Those are all maybes.

God to his gang, he was merely a nuisance to those who were watching at him just now. What he looked like definitely did not resemble charming on this night: he looked rather despicable, vindictive, villainous... hurt. However not so much physically since there didn't seem to have one darn bruise on him.

Gautier: You go and think about that, with your Brethren. Doesn't matter, _we'll_ win the war.

o o o

We cut off to The Brethren walking down the street. It all seems clear in their mind what they think of Gautier...

Spike: What war?!?!

Darla: The man's losing it.

Tombstone: Loony crank...

Drusilla: Insane!

Dru expressed moderate satisfaction - judging by her widespread smile - unbeknownst in her mind that they were all staring at their daffy friend, completely aghast by the irony in her comment.


	8. Tonight's Game Plan

**Episode Two: Rock All Night**

**Chapter Two: Tonight's Game Plan**

Fingers slipped over the hard covers of a well-packed, well-organized shelf. Exotic names and complicated titles flooded like tasty wine. As we pull away, Darla leaves sight of the shelf too but lets her hand placed next to the volumes, making only her head do a turn, all as though she has just been caught.

Darla: You have... a refined choice for the exotic my friend. Ever heard of the Kokarg? It's a lost art of torture. The victims were so viciously clawed, those who were so unlucky to find the remains said the devil itself afflicted its wrath upon them.

(A glint flickered in her eyes, narrowing them teasingly, then cornered a grin.)

Darla: Well the devil's my bitch. Buckle up!

Her snarl resonated in the posh apartment, the sound banging against the Chi dynasty artefacts and the Roman Empire swords. A rope was tensed to its near limit from the ceiling to his throat. The mid-thirty's man choked badly, his toes searching desperately for the ground. He found a chair earlier but tipped it lightly as he was hung too high to attain it successfully which gave him little if not any air. The chair had one broken leg and wobbled sporadically.

Darla: Hurry, hurry, little fellow. Oop! Time's up!

She held the chair with one hand and smashed it with a kick. Another leg broke; two remained.

Darla: So... Bob, what are we gonna do? Anyway, who- I dare ask again little fellow- who sent those men after us? The hunters. (…) WHO SENT THEM?!!

(He barely could breathe and spoke to her still.)

Bob: I-- Please!!! Stop--

Another leg cracked under her foot. The chair fell but Bob caught it with his feet and elevated himself higher than before. He could speak with more ease now.

Darla: Ahh... You annoying retard!

Bob: Please! I have a boy--

Darla: Balance is key, Bob! Balance is key!

Bob: (Sobbing) My wife is pregnant--

Darla: Ok so bye, I'll check up on you tomorrow, okay?

Bob: If-- If I tell you... will you let me go?

Darla: (Screaming, getting impatient) If you tell me, yes!!

(His body wavered to keep equilibrium.)

Bob: Arthur! Arthur Addams!!

Darla: There you go, little man. That wasn't--

The chair fell down and he fell to be hung to his death, but what none knew about dear old Bob is that he had freakishly fragile bones. His neck broke before he died of choking. Her eyes widened to marble-size. She seemed quite surprised by the sudden death and snorted it out.

Darla: Ah!!

A moment passed as she stood still, but not enough to make one count to three. All she did was shrug unkindly before she spun her heels and marched to the door.

A shadowy figure of king-size proportion waited patiently by the door like a stone soldier. He jerked out of his trance when she quickly turned from the door into the corridor. We face them with her leading and him keeping up heavily behind. As we walk backward, they head as if for us. Darla schemes out loud.

Darla: Arthur Addams. My, my! An investor gone against me. He better have invested in a comfy coffin. Anyhow, it's all the Ball I think about so better clear it out before getting into something else.

She reached for a golden wallet, very feminine, very Madame. The design was much fitting with her garments for the night. All in good taste, her hair rose in the hair with more elegance than the Queen could scrape up. Darla was divine. Every time, all the time.

The unusual weight of the wallet in her hand didn't bother her at first since she never stopped talking. All the while of the one-sided conversation, her entire being seemed dragged by her mad pace.

Darla: I know a grand tailor by the 11th Avenue, he'll fix you up in--

Her mad pace was a thing of the past. Actually, she stood stagnant, fixating the inside of her billfold.

Darla: What the--

o o o

"--hell!!!"

His accent was something everyone recognized. The boldness of it all, the raw rudeness it showed. The couple they were walked arm in arm, but the burning flesh beneath their clothes longed for it to be touched, licked and bitten. Their savage little pleasures left unsatisfied. He held a bundle of cash in his hands.

Spike: "Missy gone soft?" Missy gone cheap, more bloody likely! Where does she put all the rest? Up her tight little--

Drusilla: Paper goods are in no need of us tonight, raging cub. Vice versa! I know where we can go-o-o.

Spike: You know how I like to test them prostitutes, love. Specially the English ones.

Drusilla: Shush!!! You _test_ them!?!

Spike: In the way we _both_ like it. The way where hearts and kidneys go flying.

Drusilla: Ever present pestilence ravaging the young maidens. Like death, with his scythe of death, like a ripper. You're a ripper!

While she remained drown into him, he seemed distraught by the housing he and her where passing by.

Spike: I rip less than I spike.

As he said so with an absent mind, his body went limp and he glided off her grip, leaving her behind like a silly little lost girl. The vampire was called to the house like a sailor to sirens.

Spike: That's-- There she is.

(Dru built up a fast irritation that none could have been able to put her out of.)

Drusilla: Leave her be!

Spike: It's not like I can, pet.

She snapped him out of his state with a slap which echoed all the way to Denmark. He gained back his senses by jolting tall after the blow he received.

Drusilla: I'm sorry-y-y!!!

She threw herself on him to caress his face. So tangled into one another, their body heat - though very low- melted into one.

Spike: I guess I've had a lifetime to have her... Now it's dead. I have a new life and you're it. Cecily was for William. Spike's for--

Drusilla: Druzy?

He acknowledged with a warm smile. Before they'd drown into their eyes, he'd ask...

Spike: Where _are_ we going?

Drusilla: I can keep my bag o' tricks to me, puppet.

Spike: Hmm... (???)

Drusilla: Meaning it's a surprise, jeez.

It was a regular, run of the mill tone, which could have fooled her best critic; Dru had talked like a normal woman for once, disorienting Spike to a point he was startled when she pulled him off somewhere.

o o o

We're fixed on huge letters of a sign that read: Asylum. We go down and fix the entrance doors which are right under the sign, and we remain there for a good second or two without anything abnormal going down. As we hear an electric beat with a gothic touch from somewhere, a slowed-down Drusilla and Spike come each side of the screen to walk away from us to the building's archway. As they're getting closer, flashes of them into each other's arms from minutes ago come and go and appear more frequently as their dialogue is spoken.

Spike: So this is our dance floor tonight?

Drusilla: (Looks somewhere off behind her to then comeback into him.) All the wackos are in there.

Spike: (He looks at Dru fondly) Yeah, but some broke out.

Drusilla: (She finds his retort questionable) Hmm? Saying the nasty. Implying I'm crazy.

Spike: Bloody right... crazy in love. With a psycho, no less.

Drusilla: We pair well, don't we, striker?

... she said before giving him a savage French kiss.


End file.
